IT is not long since, here among all these folk      in London, I should have held myself
     of no account whatever,
     but should have stood aside and made them way
     thinking that they, perhaps,
     had more right than I—for who was I?
 
     Now I see them just the same, and watch them.
     But of what account do I hold them?
 
     Especially the young women. I look at them
     as they dart¹ and flash
     before the shops, like wagtails on the edge of a
         pool.
 
     If I pass them close, or any man,
     like sharp, slim wagtails they flash a little aside
     pretending to avoid us; yet all the time
     calculating.
 
     They think that we adore them—alas, would it
         were true!
 
     Probably they think all men adore them,
     howsoever they pass by.
 
     What is it, that, from their faces fresh as spring,
     such fair, fresh, alert, first-flower faces,
     like lavender crocuses, snowdrops, like Roman
         hyacinths,
     scyllas and yellow-haired hellebore, jonquils, dim
         anemones,
     even the sulphur auriculas,
     flowers that come first from the darkness, and feel
         cold to the touch,
     flowers scentless³ or pungent⁴, ammoniacal almost;
     what is it, that, from the faces of the fair young
      &nbs............